Gift
by TheBoredAuthor
Summary: War can be cruel. Set in Helmajistan, circa 1993.


**June 15th, 1993:**

**Somewhere near Helmajistan:**

The two Arm Slaves stood facing one another, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Around them, the heat was scorching, and the wind and sand swept around them, the beginnings of a sandstorm taking effect. They were both functionally the same, 10 meter tall Second Generation A.S.'s, one an Rk-91 and the other an Rk-92. The only difference between the two was that the 91 was powered by a diesel piston engine, while the 92 was powered by a high efficiency gas turbine engine, but even that was an internal difference, completely unnoticeable to an outsider.

Inside of the Rk-92's cockpit, the pilot sat, a middle-aged Persian male, face weathered and worn from years of battle. Scars lined every part of his skin, and what teeth he had left were yellowed and cracked. His eyes were a dark brown, matching the color of his thin buzz cut hairstyle. His nose was long and crooked, and it was obvious that it had been broken one-too-many times. He was ugly, but it was the ugliness that came from many brushes with death, many battles barely survived. He was a warrior through-and-through, willing to die for his country.

Sweat rolled down his heavily-lined forehead, his expression that of a determined, cold soldier. His tanned skin was lit only by the slightly green-tinted screen in front of him, showing the battlefield outside, and the enemy A.S.

_**"WARNING. ENEMY A.S. IS ON THE MOVE. YOU ARE ADVISED TO TAKE ACTION." **_The voice of his A.I. was female, light but robotic, a standard A.S. voice, designed to remind the pilot of his mother, maybe, or perhaps his wife or girlfriend. In any case, it spurred the pilot into action. Swiftly, he directed the 92 to the side, and as it came crashing down into the sand, the dunes around him exploding with his impact, he pivoted around onto his back, raising the gun attached to the A.S.'s side to shoot his attacker.

He gasped as the enemy A.S. came into view on his screen, already turned around to face the 92 with impossible speed, combat knife drawn. Creaking, the 91 flew through the air to tackle the 92, alarm systems in the 92 going off all around the pilot.

He reacted quickly, a bead of sweat dripping down over his upper lip. He fired off three shots in quick succession, two hitting the bulk of the froglike 91, and one lodging into the exposed area under the neck. Smoke shot out of the 91 as it crashed into the 92, the cockpit's lights flickering on and off under the weight and impact. The pilot grunted as the knife shot through the neck of the 92, breaching the cockpit.

After a few moments, both A.S.'s were silent and unmoving, smoke pouring out of them. Finally, the cockpit of the 92 opened, releasing an outpour of black smoke, and a lone Persian pilot, gasping for air. He fell on all fours to the sand, before forcing himself onto his feet, pistol drawn and pointed at the 91's cockpit. With his other hand, he clutched his ribcage, dripping blood onto the hot sand, turning it brown. His breathing was labored. He was badly injured, but not dead. Not yet. He lurched away from the crash site, gun still pointed at the 91's cockpit. Just as he had concluded that the pilot must be dead, he heard a whooshing sound, and the cockpit slid open, revealing more smoke.

The Persian man's finger tightened around the trigger, teeth clenched in a pained look of determination. A second later, there was a quick succession of gunshots, one, two, three, and the Persian soldier went down, one bullet finding his leg and shattering his knee, one finding his stomach, and one finding his wrist, shattering both that, and his gun-holding hand.

The man laid in the dirt, bleeding and twitching, barely able to gasp, much less scream. He was in pain, but not as much as he had expected. He had been shot before, and been injured much worse than this. He wasn't about to panic just yet. He found that panic was always the worst thing for a soldier.

A moment later, the enemy pilot was standing over him, pistol pointed at his skull, and the Persian man got his first good look at him.

"Who are you?" came the cold, calculating voice of a boy, not ten years old.

"Armaghan." The man choked out in his native Persian, shocked at the boy's appearance. He had heard of child soldiers on the battlefield, but one who possessed such skill piloting an A.S.?

"Isn't that a female name?" the boy replied curtly, in broken Persian, a sharp contrast to the fluent Helmajistani he had been speaking not a second earlier. His face was set in a permanent stoic frown. He was Asian. Korean, Japanese, Chinese, maybe? His face was tan, and his eyes were brown, though a strange shade of brown, glittering silver in the sunlight, as if filled with micah from the sand around them. His clothes were nothing but torn old rags, wrapped around every inch of his body, age coloring them a subtle off-white. His hands, one laying clenched at his side, and the other tightly clutching the pistol now pointed at Armaghan's head, finger on the trigger, were covered in small scars, cuts, and bruises. His face, however, seemed remarkably clear. Although there were varying cuts and bruises covering every inch of them, including a nasty gash set in the center of the boy's forehead that was now dripping blood steadily, there were no scars to speak of.

_ Except for one. _The man thought, eyes drawn to the large cross-shaped scar lining the boy's left cheek. It looked too neat and cleanly cut to be shrapnel wound. Almost like a surgical scar, cut with a knife or scalpel. The click of the boy's gun brought Armaghan out of his own thoughts, and he answered, once again in stubborn Persian, "It's a unisex name. It means 'Gift.'"

"I see." The boy replied, adjusting the bloodstained rag covering the upper part of his forehead above the gash, obviously meant to keep the hair out of his eyes. His hair was wild and cut raggedly, as if with a knife. And it obviously hadn't been cut in ages, as it hung past the boy's shoulders and halfway down his back. It was colored a chestnut brown, in stark contrast to the glittering silver eyes.

"W-who are you, anyway?" Armaghan replied, trying to stall the conversation, and hopefully, his death at the hands of this boy soldier.

"I am Kashim." The boy said, nodding slightly, his finger tightening on the trigger. "And this conversation is over. Goodbye."

A gunshot rang out, coming not from the gun of the boy named Kashim, but from the area directly behind him. Kashim spun around, the injured soldier beneath him momentarily forgotten. Armaghan took the chance to spin up onto his heels, ignoring the pain in his side, and, using his good arm, slam his hand into the back of the boys neck. Letting out a soft grunt, the boy collapsed, the gun falling from his hand.

Armaghan quickly picked up the gun, and looked around to determine where the gunshot had come from. He quickly assessed that what he had heard was not a gunshot, but the diesel fuel tank from the 91 catching fire, causing a loud pop that resembled a gunshot. The crisis averted, he turned his eyes to Kashim, now lying in the sand under him, gaze unflinching, face unwavering.

"Kill me, then. You have gained the upper hand." Kashim said simply, not a trace of emotion in his voice. Armaghan suddenly found himself filled with a great melancholy at what this war had turned this child into.

"No. I refuse to kill you. Get out of here," Armaghan said, voice tired. He lowered the gun, and in the next instant, felt his own feet knocked out from under him, the gun wrenched from his grasp.

In the desert, a lone gunshot rang out, along with the voice of a boy no older than ten. "Emotions have no place in the battlefield. Peace be with you, soldier."

The desert was quiet as the sand turned brown with the blood of the soldier formerly known as Armaghan.


End file.
